Off the Rack with Jesse Thorn
The self-made radio talk show host, podcast star, and emerging style guru takes us on an underground shopping tour of Los
Angeles, offering a firsthand account of his unique take on menswear
BY SHONA SANZGIRI

PHOTOGRAPHS BY GORDON DE LOS SANTOS

September 26, 2011

"Gentleman, we are about to eat like fucking kings. Well...kings of a very specific food group," says Jesse Thorn, public radio
host and Internet style guru, as we cross a busy stretch of 7th Street in Los Angeles' Westlake district. Our destination is
Langer's Deli, a Jewish eatery famous for its towering pastrami sandwiches, clamorous atmosphere, and warm brown vinyl
seating.
From the moment we enter, all eyes are fixed on the man in the radiant red silk tie. At a sturdy 6'4", the former native of San
Francisco's once-distressed Mission District is no stranger to rubbernecking. Though the efforts of his stature and manicured
attire lend the otherwise boyish 30-year-old the aplomb of a foreign dignitary, Thorn is an admitted purveyor of "dick jokes"
and general self-deprecation. Dressed in a bespoke navy blazer with a tri-fold pocket square, ironed trousers, and a pair of
bright cognac brogues, he can rapidly alter your notions of what it means to be well-dressed.
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Thankfully, Thorn is forgiving. And above all else, oddly familiar, without a trace of insincerity. "It's not hard when you've
been doing this for ten years," he says. A theater student at the University of California at Santa Cruz, performance art was his
forte. After a start in college radio, a mixture of charisma and perseverance led to syndication at New York's WNYC, then
Public Radio International came knocking. Thorn's voice on his "The Sound of Young America" is currently distributed across
nineteen markets in thirteen states.
That he's a big fan of This American Life isn't surprising. Authentic, "high-minded", and sometimes fragile, there's an earnest
similarity with Thorn's shows—to create something "beautiful and inspirational, but also human and humorous."
At first listen, his affability seems to mask a desire to please. However, one soon gets the sense that Thorn isn't being chummy
or facile—just very respectful. A magnetic interest in his subjects places him in the mold of classic cultural interrogators, of a
kind with a Studs Terkel, Terry Gross, or even David Letterman. Humbled by such a comparison, he'll also be the first person
to make fun of you for it.
Perhaps his most important talent, and the one that Thorn has counted upon as host of three different shows, is the ability to
use humor as a very subtle means of control. Thorn can switch from ebullient to cordially wry with the intention of reminding
you that you're in his house. Literally. Both podcasts, the interview program "The Sound of Young America" and the more
irreverent "Jordan, Jesse Go!" are recorded inside of his home. Which caused some guests to feel suspicious, to which Thorn
responded by dressing up for the occasion.
Which then caused those same guests to feel even more suspicious.
It can get a little confusing. On one hand, he espouses something called the "new sincerity movement", a documented
response to a tide of perceived irony within pop culture. On the other hand, he's in on the joke.
"I mean, I'm a guy wearing a bow tie hosting a podcast out of his house," Thorn says. "On paper, yeah—that sounds fucking
weird."
Our waitress approaches.
"What would you guys like to drink?" "What kind of root beer do you have?" "We've got Barq's or A&W, um...." The waitress
scans our table for signs of trouble. "I'll take an A&W."
Thorn senses my amusement. "Caffeine is a migraine trigger for me, and Barq's is caffeinated." I almost considered him
something of a root beer connoisseur. He assures me he is.
The food arrives. In between mouthfuls of pastrami and coleslaw, Thorn mentions he might have moved to the Westlake area
where Langer's is located, were it not for his wife's protestations. Despite being a guy who "hates L.A.," he has developed a
fondness for certain places, especially the nearby Koreatown district. It's why, instead of the perhaps more upscale, trendy
establishments, he opted to take us to visit one of the area's numerous Korean tailors.
Our afternoon began on a faceless stretch of MidWilshire, at Richard Lim's High Society, where Thorn
was being fitted for a sportcoat. "This is one of the few
things I've bought at full price," he says as Mr. Lim
and his associate make discreet adjustments to the
jacket, scrutinizing his upper torso as their model
paces about the room.
Everything about the place recalls some very recent
glory. Autographed headshots of Billy Crystal and Don
Johnson line the columns adjacent to the backroom
atelier. The fitting room tile is checkered, the light
somewhat fluorescent. In L.A., a television is nearly
always on, and High Society is no different. The man
who calls himself "America's Radio Sweetheart" is
looking purposefully into the mirror. To Mr. Lim and
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his associate, the jacket looks great. To Thorn's eyes, it likely contains some slight but superficially
imperceptible flaw. Maybe therein lies his authority.
His show Put This On, a web series about "dressing like a grownup," positions Thorn as a navigator for a mostly byzantine
topic that continues to intimidate and embarrass most men—the way they look, and what that says about them. Episodes are
focused—shoes, grooming, or work attire—it's less about peacocking and more about practical flair.
What Thorn offers is a measure of practicality and instruction, and allows the average man, without stylist or sponsor, to
develop a responsibility for his appearance. He doesn't consider himself an authority—more like an advocate. "I'm a curious
host, a clear writer with a unique perspective, and not a dick about the whole thing. That's what I bring to the table, really," he
says.
Put This On eschews logos, distinctive patterns, and
trends for an emphasis on fine craftsmanship and an
understanding of what works for the individual, not
the fashionista. When Thorn vouches for an expensive
item, he means it as an investment.
If it's not clear by now, dressing up is more than a
business, it's an art. In a recent interview, designer
Tom Ford described "dressing well [as] good manners,
inflicting yourself on the public in the same way as a
piece of furniture...part of someone's view, part of that
world." For Thorn, this is especially true. He laments
the rise of the "skateboard clown" look, a species
native to Southern California. Ironically, he believes
bad taste can itself be self-centered, an "antiaesthetic" in a world that seems to think "merit is
exclusive from social relationships, and social codes are inherently superficial."
Men's fashion has taken on a more earnest and classic approach, largely thanks to a curious generational nostalgia. Mad Men
is an easy arbiter to point to—it's what GQ's The Style Guy and TSOYA guest Glenn O'Brien calls "a yen for innocent
modernism." Perhaps a middling economy combined with perceived threats on the American male account for some of it. Or
maybe it's just a collective disgust about Ed Hardy. But it's unmistakable: Dudes have learned how to dress.
There's a fine line between vainglorious preening and the more noble pursuit of aesthetic refinement, and Thorn aims to
prove that his interests fall squarely on the latter. Earlier this year, the ever-provocative veteran musician and engineer Steve
Albini told GQ "fashion is repulsive. The whole idea that someone else can make clothing that is supposed to be in style and
make other people look good is ridiculous." He later went on to say he wished for GQ's demise, and praised the usefulness of
pornography.
Thorn, who's had Albini on "The Sound of Young America," thinks the "brilliant and funny" musician "gets a kick out saying
something a little true and ridiculous while coming up with a good justification for it." He's not in complete disagreement
with him, though he draws a distinction between fashion and style.
"Fashion has figured out how to manipulate people's sense of their own social standing better than any other industry. Even
cars," he says. "It works by making people feel lousy about themselves."
Where Albini gets it wrong, according to Thorn, is when he ignores the importance of clothing as a social vehicle. "You are
communicating information about yourself through your dress, and about your relationship to the world and the people
around you," he says. Even Albini is "making fashion (and social) choices by wearing plain sneakers, blue jeans, and a solidcolored T-shirt just as much as The Situation is by bedazzling a picture of his abs onto his T-shirt."
In some instances, dressing well has communicated precisely the wrong message. During the Q&A portion of Thorn's
motivational "Make Your Thing" talk, a female audience member mistook his appearance, and his subsequent advice, for
entitlement.
"She said, 'It's not that easy for all of us to just quit our jobs and do whatever we want.' And at first, I was stunned, but later
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on my wife pointed out that it was probably because of the way I was dressed! This woman just assumed I came from
privilege."
There's some grit in the oyster. Thorn grew up lower-middle class, wearing handmade clothes crafted by his mother, and cites
her attention to detail in informing his own. But growing up in predominantly Latino and black neighborhoods, Thorn stuck
out from the beginning.
He recalls one particularly hairy incident in which mother and son were "walking on the sidewalk and some guys started
throwing double C batteries out the window from a building, and we had to hide behind a car." Sometimes his appreciation
for clothing was taken the wrong way: "I was wearing this 49ers sweatshirt when I was 11, and I remember seeing these
teenagers approaching. One of them had on the same sweater and I said, 'Hey, nice sweatshirt.' And the guy punched me in
the face."

I was wearing this 49ers
sweatshirt when I was 11,
and I remember seeing these
teenagers approaching. One
of them had on the same
sweater and I said, 'Hey, nice
sweatshirt.' And the guy
punched me in the face."

Such experiences give Thorn perspective. As a result, Put This On
makes no assumptions, most of all about the prosperity of its
audience. There's a sense of community that pervades. If a highend retailer is having a sale, the site notifies readers weeks in
advance. Online promotional codes make appearances, and a
weekly eBay roundup helps readers dress well on a budget.
Considering Thorn "barely made more than $15,000 until two
years ago," resourcefulness is everything.

And then there's his other love—rap music. His tastes veer towards the unexpected. Previous guests on "The Sound of Young
America" have included UGK's Bun B, Mobb Deep's Prodigy and former Roc-a-Fella artist Peedi Peedi, among others. A
genuine love of the music and a natural curiosity endeared him to a category of musicians who might otherwise have cause
for wariness. But the guy knows his shit, and occasionally goes to amusing lengths to prove it.
"In 'Big Pimpin'. Bun B's verse contains a line 'We big pimpin' on B.L.A.D.'s, and I had to ask, 'Um, Bun, what are 'blads'?" he
says, laughing. "Bun just said, 'I think if we started pointing out the grammatical errors in rap, we wouldn't get anything
accomplished."
Our next stop is Don Ville's Shoes on La Brea. The
proprietor of Don Ville, Raúl Ojeda, greets Thorn like
family. Ojeda is a former apprentice of Willie's Shoe
Service, one of the only handmade shoemakers in the
West Coast. His own story is remarkable—after
countless attempts to convince Willebaldo Rivera, the
now 93-year-old shoe impresario, to allow him to
work for free, a mutual connection brought them
together. Both Ojeda and Rivera's families hailed from
the Mexican state of Puebla. Ojeda interned for nearly
two years and made ends meet by shining shoes
outside a Los Angeles police station. In July, he'd
raised enough money to start his own business.

Dress shoes, both of the conservative and slightly unorthodox variety, tastefully adorn the store. A gold
wingtip sits next to a cracked leather loafer. A large inviting showroom faces the busy La Brea street and
passersby stop and gawk at the display. Ojeda examines my burgundy Weejuns while we exchange
pleasantries and asks, with what seems more like a plea than an invitation, to shine my shoes. I sheepishly lift
my soles to reveal a well-worn heel. An audible groan reverberates through the room, and Ojeda pats me on
the back.
After exchanging ideas, Ojeda begins to draft sizings. Tracing the outline of Thorn's feet, he says he
considered using a transparent glass shoe to get a better sense of his clients—a Cinderella slipper of sorts that
transmits their movements, their weight, the lineaments of their being. These unassuming tradesmen seem to
be in the business of intimacies.
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The remainder of our day will be spent waist-deep (if we're lucky) in used clothes. Thorn has agreed, though I later realize it's
much to his benefit, to take us shopping at a few of his "special" thrift stores. "Over half of what I own comes from these
places," he tells me.
Somehow I imagined a more glamorous world, one where gently used Ralph Lauren Purple Label, Brioni, and Brunello
Cucinelli suitings rubbed elbows freely. In fact we are at a Goodwillâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;a decidedly still Goodwill. But watching Thorn work, I
get the sense I've misjudged.
"What are you, a size 38, 40?," he asks, looking me up and down.
"Yeah, you're good," I said.
"No, I'm just making sure we're not the same size."
I hang back. He returns moments later with a perfectly unscathed pair of New Balances. "In 10 years, I've never bought a pair
of sneakers before. Today is the day," he says. A small band of transients, single mothers, and children spend more time
tracking his movements than they do shopping. Thorn is swift, exacting, only stopping to remove something from the rack if
it meets the touch.
"Pull at this coat. See how rough it feels?" Where amateurs rely on spotting brand labels, a mostly deceptive and inaccurate
methodology, Thorn studies the garment. "I guarantee this isn't real Yves Saint Laurent," he tells me. Opening the jacket, he
shows me the lining, revealing a stitched label with a large department store's insignia. "This was made for them by these
guys. Not the same thing."
But more often than not, he does well. "One time I came here and a guy had donated his entire wardrobe of Oxxford suits, the
best ready-to-wear suits in the United States," he tells me. "These suits cost $4,000, the kinds that super rich CEOs wear.
Famously, Rod Blagojevich had an entire wardrobe of them. Sometimes somebody just donates a bunch of great clothesâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;I
bought ten," he says.
He lifts a shirt, motioning it towards my face. With some hesitancy, I'm hunched over his arm with my lips in
a full smooch as Thorn grazes a button against my mouth "When it feels cold, you can tell it's not plastic.
Mother of pearl. High quality stuff."
On more than one occasion Thorn gives me a handout. "Here, you live up north. I wish I could wear sweaters
all year round," he says as I gladly take a red Brooks Brother sweater out of his possession. Following him
around a thrift store, you feel as though you're being given a private tour of a very secret world.
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He discards far more than he selects. Can you always be this particular? "The secret is to find clothes that are tens, and not
sevens. Keep your wardrobe edited so that it really works. Wearing two things that kind of work doesn't turn into something
that really works," he says.
To Thorn, guidelines should be inspirational, a recognizable premise from which one should incorporate their own
individuality. Style is as much of a personal choice as it is adhering to certain truisms. "I think people should look at the rules
as a palette. Shakespeare wrote sonnets, and they weren't lesser for having followed a form. I'd say they were better," he says.
Our second location is a thrift store with a more organized and notorious appeal. "This place is known for Dr. Phil's suits," he
says. "I've found so many of his suits here."
I assume he's referring to the cut. A 'Dr. Phil' suit is probably a nickname for some billowy number. But sure enough, Thorn
pulls one from the rack, showing the monogram that indicates the jacket once belonged to the talk show host. "He gets pretty
good suits made though. Too bad I'm not his size." Pause. "That's probably a good thing actually."
By our third thrift store visit, fatigue sets in. This is
what separates the common wardrobe from the
spectacularâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;persistence. Thorn is dancing to R.
Kelly's "Step in the Name of Love," lifting brand-new
Ferragamos off the rack, making genial small talk with
employees. Here he stumbles upon a different kind of
sartorial treasure. "Finding crew jackets from
cancelled TV programs is such an L.A. thing," he says
after spotting an All That crew jacket, memorabilia
from the '90s Nickelodeon sketch comedy show.

This mixture of lowbrow pop culture knowledge with his more rarefied interests is what endears him to such a wide audience.
One day he's interviewing comedians like Louis C.K. and the next, impeccably dressed writers like Gay Talese. I ask him if
everything runs smoothly when you're bouncing between these two worlds. He recalls one strange encounter.
"One time, I was working as a publicist for the SF Sketchfest and we booked Doug Stanhope. I woke up at 4 a.m. to get him,
and when I got to his house, he wouldn't come out. He sent a different comedian, and told me to tell my boss that this guy was
him," he says. "So I called my boss and my boss said 'Just tell them you thought it was Doug Stanhope. So I said fine, and we
brought him in and he did the interview as Doug Stanhope. My blacklist is a short one," he says with a laugh.
There are few things that upset Thorn. Much like his sense of dress and demeanor, the things that annoy him are classicâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;bad
drivers, selfishness, lack of civility. Unfortunately, he lives in Los Angeles.
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"If my son grows up to be a skateboarder who goes to the mall, that's one thing," he says. "But if he grows up to be a Dodgers
fan, I don't think I'll emotionally recover."
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